


to test the waters (or to dive in)

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First of, the cashier is <i>“unable to find any record of your booking sir, I am sorry”</i> which, really, doesn’t make any sense. Any. At all. He’s sure that he clicked on confirm and---and the power went off before he could receive any confirmation of the reservation. He did get an e-mail that he did not open because he was sure it was just the same old same message, telling him how many credits he now has for the booking of his train. <i>Clearly</i>, that wasn’t it.</p>
<p>Second of, the only available next train to Paris is at 11pm, which means that he will be stuck in a train station for almost six hours, with nothing but a half bag of chips and a copy of Les Miserables because it felt appropriate. Or something.</p>
<p>Mesut Özil is not prepared for situations that get out of his control, or for any points out of the line. It is simply not how his life works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to test the waters (or to dive in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apollothyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/gifts).



> Written for [this](http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/31896.html?thread=561048#t561048) prompt on the footy ficathon, but also as a birthday gift for the one and only [Gisela](https://twitter.com/paleplumpass). My bae, my love, mein hase.

Mesut is not good at many things.

He’s terrible at poetry. He finds it beautiful, yes, interesting and mysterious, but he doesn’t get it. It doesn’t matter how many times, how many ways, how many hours he spends trying to wrap his mind around a Neruda piece: it just doesn’t happen. He has tried multiples, too. Tried Camões, tried TS Eliot. He (metaphorically) left Europe, searched for poems in Brazil, Argentina, South Africa, Congo, United States and China.

He traveled the world in bookstores, collected books that would soon be stuffed in a shelf, accumulating piles upon piles of dust. He eyes them every now and then, a silent prayer that some magical dust will teach him the words of the poets, and fill him in on a secret that he has been dying to know all of his life.

Mesut’s not good at flirting either. He stumbles upon the words, his cheeks flushes and he stutters. He has accepted the universal truth: he will never, in a thousand years, be as good as Mats, whose soft eyes and easy smile got Benni to fall, and fall hard.

Here’s what he’s good at: he’s good at planning, and sticking to that plan. Good at choosing precisely what he’s going to do, what he’s going to buy, and never ever getting out of the route, out of his tracks. He knows how to select the perfect date, and time, and place, in a way that everything fits perfectly, like made pieces of puzzles.

Which is why he stands in the line of the train station, ready to pick up his ticket to France, at 5:46pm, thank you very much.

There’s not a single possible way that anything, anything at all could go wrong, because he planned it, he designed it to his pleasing. There is no way that it could possibly go wrong, which is why it absolutely goes.

First of, the cashier is _“unable to find any record of your booking sir, I am sorry”_ which, really, doesn’t make any sense. Any. At all. He’s sure that he clicked on confirm and---and the power went off before he could receive any confirmation of the reservation. He did get an e-mail that he did not open because he was sure it was just the same old same message, telling him how many credits he now has for the booking of his train. _Clearly_ , that wasn’t it.

Second of, the only available next train to Paris is at 11pm, which means that he will be stuck in a train station for almost six hours, with nothing but a half bag of chips and a copy of _Les Miserables_ because it felt appropriate. Or something.

Mesut Özil is not prepared for situations that get out of his control, or for any points out of the line. It is simply not how his life works.

His father taught him, with strict words, that discipline and planning will get him far in life, as it did him, because that is how life works. He would say, time and time again, of how there are no room for mistakes in adulthood, that everything has to be perfectly planned, and thought, and sorted out.

He settles for the line of chairs in the corner, where there is almost no one and he can press half of his body against the cold wall, and pretend, at least for a second, that there is nothing going wrong.

Mesut is not sure of how much time has passed -- it might have been five minutes, or two hours --, when he feels someone kicking his leg, soft enough not to hurt, but still hard, being able to grasp his attention.

And, oh, how it grasps.

The stranger has brown eyes, and a dark hair long enough for him to run his fingers through (which he is absolutely not thinking about, let it be clear). There is just something about him. Something interesting enough not to make Mesut squint ever so slightly, and ask if there is any way that he can help. Instead, it makes him smile. He arches his lips ever so slightly, looking at the man with a mist of interest and confusion.

“Do you mind if I seat here?” He asks, a hint of shyness in his tone as he mutters the words, each coming out slowly of his lips. “It seems quite comfortable.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He replies, a now visible smile on his lips.

There’s nothing more cliché, he assumes, than saying that they both just clicked. That conversation between them was natural, and comfortable, and good, and every end of topic left that sweet taste of _oh god please don’t let this conversation end_ , and every time the station announced a new departure a silent prayer of _please don’t let it be his_ was made. There is nothing more cliché, or truer than saying such words.

They talk about everything. From favourite football club to family origins, Sami - as he found out early on -, has a true soft spot for Real Madrid. His father is from Tunisia, and sometimes it was tough growing up, when kids would say hurtful things about his father and himself. “I got used to it, though. Learned that there are some people that are just best to avoid” he says, and Mesut is able to catch the slightest hint of sadness in his tone.

It doesn’t surprise him when he looks at the clock and it hits 8:39pm. It doesn’t require any effort for him to accept to go to the nearest lunch place and grab something to eat.

“I feel as if I have been talking and talking about myself nonstop. Tell me a bit about you. Something that you don’t give away by your ear to ear smile.”

There’s a moment of silence, a soft hint of confusion, because _he doesn’t know what to say_. Nothing unique about him comes to the mind, nothing that seems worth saying, worth sharing. It brings a bitter taste to his mouth, and for a moment he’s certain that he will disappoint Sami. That, upon hearing his answer, a quiet “I’m quite good at planning things” he will leave, annoyed and angry for wasting his time with such a bore of a man.

He doesn’t leave.

Instead, he smiles, and arches his brows, an interested smile on his lips. “Planning? Like, parties and such?”

“Well. It’s kind of… Well, everything, really.” He says, and shrugs. “I plan my trips metrically, from top to bottom. I plan my works, my food, the time that I will spend doing this or that. I just. Plan. Everything.” Mesut laughs softly, almost embarrassed of the words that leave his mouth.

“Don’t you ever do something just for the hell of it, though?” Sami asks, furrowing his brows ever so softly. “Don’t you ever just say ‘fuck it’ and just… do something that you want?”

Mesut laughs awkwardly, red coloring his cheeks as he presses his lips together. “Uh. No, actually. Not really.” He swallows hard, staring at his barely touched coffee before looking at Sami again. “What about you? Do you do things out of the blue?”

“Well, I don’t even know where I’m going tonight. I have 100 euros in my wallet and no destination in mind just yet.”

Mesut isn’t an envious guy. He usually accepts what he is and how he is, not wishing to change a thing about himself because. Well. It’s just who he is. But now, now, he wishes to have at least a tad much of that courage. At least one inch of that recklessness. At least a bit of guts to go and change his plans without feeling that overwhelming guilt of not going into the path that he created for himself.

“That’s… brave.” It’s all that he can master saying, lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I like to think of it as living.” Sami replies, and there’s still a sweet smile on his lips, a kindness in his features that he has never seen before, and that he can not help but to hope to never not see again.

It is truly beautiful.

They fall silence for a moment, only looking at each other. It’s almost as if no words are needed, almost if there’s a mutual comprehension of one another, an unbreakable connection between the two of them. It’s like there’s only them in that train station, and no one else.

And it makes no sense, because they only just met, and it’s risky, and dangerous, and _right_.

At all his previous relationships, Mesut tested the waters. He put his toes first, checked if the temperature was of his liking before daring to put any other part of his body in. Before daring to let his chest (his heart) get submersed by the water.

Sami makes him want to jump.

To dive in without caring, without thinking twice.

Makes him want to throw himself in, to fall deep and fall hard.

Mesut doesn’t think twice before saying “Come with me. To France. Come with me.”

“What?”

“You said you don’t have a destination in mind. So come with me. To France. If there are no more tickets for the same time as me I’ll change my train. Come with me.” There’s excitement in his voice, and, for the first time in what seems to be forever, there is no trace of fear in him. There’s only an urge to do this. To cannonball jump into the unknown waters of Sami fucking Khedira.

“Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

The smile that Mesut opens could probably light up the whole of Europe and more.

-

Mesut is not good at many things.

He’s not good at singing, or writing, or painting.

He’s not good at board games, much less card games.

He’s not good at watching football, either, because he gets competitive and overly excited.  

He’s not good at many things. He’s not good at most things.

But here’s what he is good at: he’s good at guessing what Sami is going to say before he even opens his mouth. He’s good at knowing when he’s not okay, even if they are miles apart. He’s good at making him feel loved, and happy, and full.

He’s good at untangling the knots on his hair as he runs his fingers through them, as they tangle their legs and body in bed to a late night movie stream. He’s good at kissing the top of his head, and the curve of his neck. He’s good at touching him in the right places, and making him laugh when their world feel like it is about to crumble to pieces.

He’s good at anything and everything that has to do with Sami.

Because when he’s with him, only the two of them, everything makes sense.

When he’s with him, poetry doesn’t seem that hard after all.

 

 


End file.
